


A much nicer view from the sky

by ParadifeLoft



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (and if it had it would lead to a different outcome for Gondolin than in canon), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, M/M, does Gondolin's weird sociopolitical atmosphere count as a fourth character, mostly because in my head it's sort of a "what if this happened", not because of radical changes in events or characterisation at this point in time imo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-28
Updated: 2014-07-28
Packaged: 2018-02-10 18:15:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2035101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ParadifeLoft/pseuds/ParadifeLoft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even as he makes friends in the city, Tuor becomes increasingly discomfited by Gondolin and his place there. Maeglin makes him an offer with the intent of destroying the positive regard he's garnered - but the similarities they share and their perspectives as outsiders draw them to one another despite the antagonism between them shaped by some of the same factors.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A much nicer view from the sky

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gloriousmonsters](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloriousmonsters/gifts).



> Written for the 2014 Ardor in August Exchange.
> 
> Many thanks to Calime/an-animal-imagined-by-poe for reading this over and pulling me back away from the edge of the cliff of complete incomprehensibility in several places... Any further issues seen here (of which I'm sure there are many) are most certainly the fault of the author, not the beta.
> 
> Anyway, that said, happy Ardor in August, Maure! Amused as I am that this is the second time I was selected to write for you, I do hope this does your prompt and your Gondolin babbies some amount of justice. They were a stubborn misbehaviour-prone bunch to be sure... but then I suppose that's just what happens when you have to write from the impassive character of the pair's POV because otherwise you'd get an absolute flood of Maeglin-introspection drowning anything else going on ;P

Winter greened, and flowers grew on the mountain slopes ringing Tumladen and the sculpted terraces layering the city. Yellow, orange, white; red and pink inside the walls themselves; small buds and curling petals that Tuor was unfamiliar with, as he felt still with many of the ways of this place.

Mentions of Ulmo's warning did not grow in number alongside those flowers, though. Gondolin was silent in the echo of Tuor's warning, like a ringing prematurely stilled, and the only words of the Valar brought in public were the calls from the temples and shrines each fortnight. They were regular and comforting, at least, and so Tuor would rise from his bequeathed chambers with them even though the calls themselves were unfamiliar, and say his own prayers, the ones Annael had taught as a child, before the hearth-stones.

The Gondolindrim's prayers, from what he'd seen of them, were old rituals, old as shining Tirion or so he'd been told when he'd asked. Certainly nothing like those he remembered from his old past - too cluttered a space, too many items and words needed to be aligned just right. They were a city's prayers, and all Tuor had known was of a sparse nomad's band in mountain caves.

But another difference, too, one he'd only just dawned upon, through a fog of niggling unease: these were not devotions to ones yet living and present among their people. Instead, they felt like words displaced in time, a supplication in the present that had been dragged from its sleeping bed in a distant past and revived anew with no changes to affix it here in time.

Was this the lack of heed paid Ulmo's words, Tuor wondered - not without some trepidation. But a city closed off from all others among elves and Men… perhaps it closed itself to the Lord of the Waters, to all the Valar, as well.

The thought alarmed him.

He had given Ulmo's missive to Lord Turgon, after all; before what had seemed to him at the time to be near all the city - and yet none _heeded_ those words, nor seemed inclined to start. What power did he have to compel adherence to his lord's wisdom when the city's king ignored a message delivered straight, and his people seemed to turn their ears deaf to the Valar?

More than once, Tuor's mind had flitted to the thought of questing after some of the high table's lords, asking their thoughts on what steps might be taken to preserve Gondolin's people. Before, it had been some part curiosity, some part exuberance at seeing his given mission spreading like pond ripples into action. And yet now… they unnerved him now, more than they once had, and he could put a name to why despite a reluctance to. This was not merely curiosity, but a hope that these lords might be swayed on their own, enough to sway the king in turn where Tuor had failed.

He misliked the notion.

And certainly not less for the fact that though he was on friendly terms with near all the lords of the Houses - cheerful and pleasant when they found themselves seated by one another at a meal or arranging some outing, often to introduce yet another aspect of Gondolin's layered infrastructure - he had yet to broach any sort of friendship that might lend itself naturally to such open discussion, if he would not introduce it through an ulterior plot.

Moreover, the two individuals ranked nearest to Lord Turgon, Tuor had spoken to neither more than a few words each since he had arrived. The Princess Idril not for lack of trying, he supposed, for he had noticed her eyes curious on him more than once even if she seemed to be surrounded at all times by her ladies serving her and her lords asking for her service. Not a moment of time to spare to herself, it appeared.

If his cousin's gaze was curious, Lord Maeglin's was something else entirely; hard for Tuor to make out, but of a certainty bearing less pleasantness with it. More of coldness, possibly mistrust. Not that Tuor had the inclination to fuel any such feelings, or indeed be anything but perfectly polite, adequately cheerful. Something he was familiar enough with.

The way the king's nephew observed him did not seem to have changed at all when, toward the close of one of the frequent dinners held in the king's public villa, Tuor found _himself_ approached by the young lord, of all people. Lord Maeglin dressed in black and grey, with little ornamentation, not even where a House's insignia would be placed on another lord's garb - but the Mole's House indicated itself solely with a colourless field. The eleventh house, only brought into being for the sake of the King's nephew when he arrived, and not exactly a _proper_ House, compared to the other ten, one of the lesser lords had explained to him in response to one of Tuor's questions.

"May I help you, my lord?" Tuor asked. He did not rise from his seat, but simply turned to face Maeglin directly, looking up at him - Elven lords were not the same as Mannish slavemasters, but even so Tuor was reluctant to match his height against any individual who might wish to exercise power over him. Maeglin did not answer immediately, simply letting his gaze flit across Tuor's manner as if attempting to discern his thoughts without either of them needing to speak. Perhaps it was - knowing another's mind in such a way was supposedly a skill of the High Elves.

His eyes did not leave Tuor's face when he finally spoke. "You wish to bring the lords of the Houses to your party in urging the king to withdraw his people from Gondolin." It was not a question, nor kindly spoken.

Tuor blinked. Of all the things, this was not one he'd have expected… Distaste for Tuor's welcome and predominant acceptance, perhaps; sneering comments about the easygoing manner he cultivated. Moreover what Maeglin accused him of was not only unrelated to any truth, but opposite it.

He shook his head, gaze somewhere near Maeglin's collar rather than providing the challenge of direct eye contact or the disregard of looking somewhere else entirely. "I've entertained no such thoughts, my lord," Tuor replied. "It would be… repugnant to me. My lord Ulmo entrusted me with a task to bring his message to the King. It's not a task that would be served by being anything besides forthright, even were I inclined. And I am not."

It was easier to discern then the source of his distaste for the secret dealings of which Maeglin accused him - a profaning, almost, of his divine task. Intended to save the last remaining kingdom of Beleriand, on the word of the gods; but to sneak about and accomplish it using others as cloaked tools, would be to engage Morgoth's own methods. A black foe indeed, to worm himself even from so far away, into the hearts and suspicions of the right hand of the king.

Maeglin gave a slight scowl, a tilt of his head and a lidding of his deep, dark eyes. His mouth twisted. "Shall you think ill of me now, see the obvious sentence of my heritage? Even as you claim your innocence - but do not worry, I am certain that speak of your ill thoughts and our city's lords will easily flock to your company for influencing as you wish."

This was the second time Maeglin had read something of the contents of Tuor's thoughts (if not their true nature) with little more than a glance, and he might have shivered if frustration had not edged aside that thought in the front of his mind. But he simply stood, instead of giving an answer, regarding the lord with a neutral respect. "My thanks for your company and advice, my lord," he said in farewell, with an accompanying dip of his head. He'd finished enough of his meal, anyway.

Maeglin's demeanour was unreadable as well; but he did not make any attempt at retaining Tuor's presence. All he acknowledged, by just a few words as Tuor passed.

"If you do wish to change your mind, know that I better than any other lord here possess Turgon's ear. You'd do well to remember it."

After a moment, Tuor nodded again. As he passed the courtiers and servants through the arching doorways, the halls that led off to his guest chambers and the palace square, he was silent in thought.

 

\----

 

If the princess finally came to slake her curiosity, to Tuor's surprise he found his own growing for her as well.

" _How_ many men were in the hunting party that you bested?" she queried him, and "That must have been trying - ah but you have become no stranger to valor now," after he replied. Not like he _felt_ he'd shown any particular bravery, simply a path he'd been pointed to and set upon, to follow it to its end. He could not much think how he _felt_ about his deeds.

And yet their conversation turned darker, not long after. "It is… troubling, I must admit, to hear such tidings of these lands once ruled by my uncle and grandfather. Despite your own deeds." Princess Idril's face showed concern, rare enough among the expressions she wore during her appearances thus far in public. And yet the hint of the individual beneath her title, Tuor could not help but find compelling.

He shook his head. "I appreciate the thought, but I've done little of note. In the mountains I served myself for my own survival, and as for now, my actions belong to another master. I don’t need praise."

Idril's concern as she began to formulate a reply was clearly politeness, though Tuor could see her confusion at the answer he'd given beneath it anyway. But before she could reply, Tuor heard soft footsteps just outside the entrance to the parlor. When he turned, Idril's cousin was a black shadow in the doorway.

"You must forgive us for our assumptions," Maeglin murmured softly. His dark eyes had a faint gleam to them, giving a certain unnerving charm to his otherwise subdued manner. "There is much value we place upon glory and valor, here. And we have trouble, it seems, comprehending the nature of deeds that do not fit so well into that mould."

Though it was addressing him at the surface of the statement, Tuor had the sense (not least from his own impression of _missing_ something)that Maeglin's sentiment was directed at someone else; perhaps even something beyond just their immediate conversation. He frowned slightly. Beside him, Idril's lips were pressed tighter than usual; she was not looking directly at either of them, but rather as though she were in thought and attempting to parse how she might respond.

Her words, when they came, were a bit stiff. "I shall take note to remember that in the future. My gratitude for the reminder, cousin."

Nobody spoke for a few moments; Tuor could almost feel them pass with the drum of his pulse as timekeeper.

"You mentioned your uncle and grandfather, before?"

Idril blinked, running her hand down a section of hair hanging down over her shoulder from the complex braids and knots pinned at the back of her head. She looked over at him, and her mouth curled into a somewhat sad smile.

"Yes. I… miss hearing good news of their kingdoms. The eagles brought my father tidings, even though we had no direct contact with anybody outside the city since we arrived… It was nice to hear about them, if not from them. And it troubles me, if I may speak directly, when I think upon the sacrifices they made and the people they tried to protect, while we have looked so inward to ourselves that we no longer seem to pay heed to the collapse of the kingdoms of our kin around us." When she finished, it was with a slight nod of her head that could have been nerves.

And that was… not exactly his favourite situation to be in. "I'm sorry to hear that," Tuor offered, hesitantly. "I don't know what has happened to my family or people, myself - we've taken separate paths, and they have not converged again since I left."

Idril looked shocked. "Your… human family? Húrin and Huor, no? My father spoke of their valor during the last great battle - they fell there, defending our soldiers. But there are many here who knew and loved them when they were young, and came to our city by chance - you might ask about them, I'm sure we would all be pleased to tell you stories."

Tuor turned back to look at Idril as she finished speaking. Maeglin had distracted him momentarily, shifting in a sudden movement, jarring from his previous stillness. Maeglin had quieted again, almost as soon as he shifted initially, but his gaze upon them now seemed less serene, both more and less guarded than before. Did he wish to approach him, later, ask about it? Hardly. He had no reason to wish for another such conversation as they'd had several nights previous. But there was still some pull toward the decision that he could not place. More curiosity, he supposed.

But to Idril, he shook his head, murmuring, "No, no - these were Eldar, my family I meant, from the caves of Androth in Mithrim. I am aware of Húrin and Huor's fates. And my mother's." _Rian_. Annael had told him of her, when he had grown somewhat. He wondered if she was anything like the women here in Gondolin - though he doubted it. He couldn't see any of the people he had met in the city so far dying of grief.

"Is she no longer living?"

The words, soft-spoken but sharp in their suddenness, cut Tuor from his thoughts. Maeglin stared at him with an unnerving intensity, not quite watching him from straight on, hands clasped together before him. Tuor blinked - it was hardly so serious a question as all that. "No, she's not," he replied, almost without any thought to the words.

" _Maeglin_ ," said Idril, her words and their tone of reproach near overlapping with Tuor's own. And in barely a flash of a moment, her cousin's demeanour changed so that every surface of his person might have been a razor's edge, silver and straight and sharp. Had he drawn himself taller? Or was it simply his stony face, like a cliff's severe edge?

"He took no offense, _cousin_ ," came the acrid response. Now it was Idril, on whom Maeglin's intensity had become directed. She met his eyes, straight-backed and almost a layer of frost to her expression.

Whatever lay between them, the prospect of tumbling into the midst of it, especially knowing none of the territory he would be forced to venture through, was not a friendly one. And something about this conversation had gone on long enough now, and become more unsettling than pleasant. Tuor stood abruptly, holding his palms up before his chest. He looked back and forth between the two highest of Gondolin's lords, save for King Turgon himself.

"Please. It is not any hardship to my part. I don't wish to cause some argument simply by having a question posed to me. It meant little and less, and I've near almost forgotten it already." He paused, and lowered his hands, glancing down toward the floor for a brief moment. "But I am tired, and should like to retire, if it does not offend my lady and my lord's sensibilities."

Idril's expression softened at his request, distracted at least partially from her conflict with Maeglin, who had settled back into the calm, expressionless observation he'd begun with.

"Of course it doesn't," Idril murmured, with a faintly melancholy hint of smile. Her fingers circled the richly-upholstered arm of her chair, before she stilled once more. "I do thank you for the company, you know. For indulging my curiosity - my father used to insist I stop bothering every single adult and child in a given room, when I was younger, and I suppose I've never really grown out of it. Hidden it behind diplomacy, perhaps." Her smile became truer then, and her bright eyes crinkled. "But yes, you are free to go, if I've tired you. I'm sure your stamina for endless conversation is hardly our own."

Tuor laughed slightly as he gave a small bow of farewell to each of them. "Perhaps it's a skill I'll develop if I stay here long enough," he said. And it wasn't, he mused, so much of a hypothetical any longer. He probably would stay here for quite a while longer. The sudden change in his thoughts from what had been largely a lighthearted conversation before, did not put him at anything resembling ease.

Walking through the arched doorway, the small enclosed courtyard with it's smooth marble floors between the corridor and the Princess's chambers, that sense of unquiet only grew.

But despite, or perhaps because of such thoughts, it took the ghosting brush of a hand against his own shoulder for Tuor to realise he had not left Idril's chambers alone. He near started at the touch, and the voice emerging from the silence like a cat from the shadows.

"Do recall what I offered to you, Adan," murmured Maeglin, now at Tuor's side. If he looked at him at all, it was from the downcasted corner of his eye. "I shall have you know that endurance of conversation does not come here with simply time. Not for you or I, at the least."

When he removed his hand from Tuor's shoulder, giving a cryptic sidelong glance, a strange sensation seemed to permeate him at the edge of his senses from the point of contact. Tuor blinked, watching as he continued his way down the corridor, turning into the next branching hall and out of his range of sight.

It occurred to Tuor that the man was likely playing some courtier's game, and trying to use Tuor himself as a piece in it. Something to do with Idril? He couldn't say. But the thought didn't please him. And yet - _Adan_? How odd, to be called that directly, by the one who did not _treat_ him as such; especially when for most everyone else it seemed to be the opposite. At least when it was said in such plain language, he could identify the _strangeness_ of it; simply - had he ever thought of himself as such? Not until he'd came to Gondolin, so it seemed. But what did Maeglin mean to say with it? Telling him he was an outsider with bitterness, rather than kind curiosity? The latter at least seemed unintentional at least, where the former spoke more of… manipulation, most likely.

And Tuor had had quite enough already of his actions being controlled by masters not of his own choosing, was the point of it. Maeglin seemed a more enticing one than most, easily drawing Tuor's thoughts to him from barely a few words, something like a promise in his tone. But fear at what he suspected as a danger here, as always, seemed to pass over and through him, leaving no true impression in its wake.

It was hard to get that offer - or more, the form offering it, sharp and dark and hidden, guarded and hovering at the borders, the outside - out of his thoughts when Tuor had returned to his rooms.

 

\----

 

Maeglin's chambers were noticeably dimmer than the rest of the city of Gondolin, at least the parts Tuor had visited; and unlike with those of other noblemen who had bid him come be entertained for a time, no servant escorted him to the inner sitting room, asking if he would desire refreshment. Instead, he was simply granted admittance, the man remaining outside at the door and leaving Tuor to navigate where the enigmatic lord might wish to speak with him entirely on his own.

He might have marveled at his _expectation_ , now, that one person visiting another might be shown in by servants, a practise that seemed stiff and formal compared to the easy movements of the Mithrim he'd grown up among. But Gondolin in its entirety was an environment so unlike the caves of his childhood , that the rules he would've assumed in a more similar place, didn't even occur to him that they _should_ remain the same.

When Maeglin appeared, he did so silent as ever, black clothes and sleek braided black hair like a piece of the gloom shifting of its own accord - belied only by the paleness of his face and hands. Tuor wondered briefly if he'd done the right thing, settling down into one of the chairs against the wall before his ostensible host had yet arrived.

But Maeglin gave no indication of caring for that decision, pleasant or unpleasant, despite the full focus of those sharp black eyes directed at Tuor and, as far as he could tell, nothing else. Most of his life he'd spent sliding just beneath others' concern, aided by his tendency not to display so many extremes as the people he met. Slaves, the Easterlings, certainly the lords and ladies here in Gondolin. Maeglin's attention felt incongruous.

Though if the stare was unnerving, his movements seemed less so. He picked the chair beside Tuor's, opposite the wall corner, sitting down in a way that reminded Tuor somewhat of a cat. Well, his tongue certainly seemed sharp enough.

"You request an… _audience_ with me?" was the first thing Maeglin said. There seemed to be some small, private joke in the words; one whose source Tuor could not quite guess at; one whose seeds and roots were bitter. It was something he'd grown able to identify in his years under Lorgan, for the conversations of other thralls so often felt of it. But it was still not a thing he understood as a feeling himself.

Others seemed to like him better for it. With Maeglin, somehow Tuor doubted that would be the case.

"Yes," Tuor answered simply. The court manners he'd acquired so easily, used with so many of Gondolin's courtiers with little break since arriving - he could feel them set down, by the half-conscious part of his mind. For all that he wouldn't say he _liked_ Maeglin, or enjoyed his company - nor did he have a wish to anger him. Or hurt him? It was hard to see the latter, but it slotted into a spot in Tuor's mind more easily than the former.

"You asked me yesterday if my mother was dead," he elaborated. Perhaps most wouldn't see it as elaboration; he didn't care. "Nobody in Gondolin speaks of death. I haven't heard it since the king recounted the story of his wife."

Maeglin's eyes narrowed, his mouth twisted. "No? I heard men in the library just three days past recounting with vehemence their grudges against the Sons of Feanor in the east. Death, if you were unaware, as this is largely before your _time_ , features quite prominently." With pale, slender fingers, he plucked a strand of loosed hair away from his face.

"But I suspect you have come because our conversation yesterday convinced you that wisdom lay in seeking my aid in your Vala's task." His mouth became a smile, more like a smirk. The glint in his eyes returned, too. A sort of confidence, a - knowing? Power, to change, perhaps. Some part of Tuor sighed, reaching out, expanding, wishing to possess whatever lived beneath that gleam.

It was not of much importance, though. Tuor shook his head no: Maeglin would have to do this without games. Tuor knew his own motivations.

"I have no reason to come to you for that. You spoke against my words, Ulmo's wisdom, to the king. You spoke against retaining me here with my freedom. You clearly don't trust me, and you've given me no reason to think I should be asking your help here. If I even asked anyone at all."

Maeglin ran his thumb against the side of a glass of water, still but for a small single ripple, that stood on the side table near his chair. His smile had dimmed somewhat, but the gleam in his eyes if anything had grown brighter.

"So you don't trust me. You're not here because my offers of advice have proved persuasive. If it is as you say, very well. But you've not told me why you _are_ here."

A beat passed. Tuor's brow furrowed; he took a breath in. What he'd imagined - _had_ he imagined it, he realised? Or simply followed some strange intuition that was not overly fond of thoughts, plans? - but whatever it was that impelled him to seek this meeting, did not anticipating it involving such a direct questioning of his motives. When acted upon, they seemed true; when spoken aloud, given words, they seemed. Foolish.

But Maeglin waited; Maeglin would take poorly, Tuor sensed, to being treated insincerely, or glibly. "You speak to me as the men of my childhood spoke to me," he said finally, in a low voice. "And you asked of my mother's death as simply a part of my life, not a performance. Or a ritual - No, that's not the word - "

Maeglin interrupted before he could attempt to sort through his thoughts for the word he intended, with a click of his tongue. He tilted his head, hair falling across the planes and angles of his sharp face; he narrowed his eyes.

"You tell me you've come here because I do not treat you as a Man, as the rest of this city does. Is that it?" He twisted his mouth, as if chewing the idea over, shifting in his chair to tuck his legs tidily out of the way. "Perhaps you've noticed something amiss, and it rubs at you though you cannot tell the source? Until you begin to desire the company of one who speaks across to your purposes, and offers you no trust or kindness. Because he offers a mirror, that sees with greater clarity than you do, and you know well how to be alone but are nonetheless lonely."

Tuor sat impassively through the princeling's speech, though something in his soul began to twist and struggle to touch itself against the power contained in Maeglin's words. He was still, through it: it was not an urge he could place, because the words did not speak to him with the truth of one who could pierce his being, command belief and obedience.

Maeglin was no Vala, and Tuor was more than glad of it. But he knew enough to arrange words that would grab at a person's soul.

"I don't feel anybody here has treated me unkindly," he responded, keeping his voice level, uninflected. It usually came naturally to him; now he could feel some amount of effort that he put into the doing - even if not much. "Or differently from the others. Except for you. All I want to know is why you asked me about death."

That put, perhaps, a chink in the mask. Maeglin's knowing, evaluative half-smirk had become something more of a cross between a scowl and a pout, in a flash across his face as mobile as Tuor's was static. He seemed almost irritated, as if drawing a cloak all about him to keep out the cold of the night air in the mountains. "I did not find it unkind at first either," Maeglin replied archly. His eyes, black and penetrating, focused from their corners on Tuor. "The feeling shall grow upon you soon enough. Sooner than you shall like. Perhaps you shall wish for these days back? Where you are a novelty, more than an oddity."

Impassive as he tended to be, Tuor's irritation had managed to grow from this small conversation alone into active displeasure. With an exhaled breath, he stood abruptly, causing a certain satisfaction in seeing Maeglin cock his head suddenly to follow, black eyes widening in surprise. He'd surprised even himself, truly.

"I'm not here for you to spin stories about my thoughts. I asked you why you questioned me about my mother's death. I want the answer."

He'd caused some discomfort, evidently, if the shade of a petulant scowl was anything to go by. Had Maeglin thought simply to receive him in his chambers, and make his almost cryptic speeches until he ran out of breath while Tuor just nodded along? No. Tuor was not about to bow to such patronising behaviour, not while the one who would do as much held no power over him.

And perhaps Maeglin knew it. For he dropped the scowl into a mask of bored disdain, dragging his finger along the line of his glass again, preferring to look there rather than at Tuor himself. "You are not the only one here to know such an event, that is all. Even if nobody else here has any desire to admit it to you. They would be reminding themselves, you see. We cannot do that, if we wish in our _hearts_ that we remain still in Blessed Aman."

His voice fairly dripped of sarcasm by the end.

Tuor looked down on Maeglin, still and sharp, unsure where the trap for him might be. For there was certainly a trap, somewhere. But then - no, Princess Idril had told him once that she'd been young when the Noldor had left the Blessed Realm. And her cousin was younger still than she was - which he could almost tell, at times, oddly enough.

"You've never seen Aman," Tuor stated, flatly.

Almost to his surprise, Maeglin didn't dissemble this time. "No. I have not. It is not even a memory or a belief, just this impoverished copy. And, nor have I a mother living. Nor a father. He killed her, you see. _Here_ , not in some banished ice or broken land full of light."

His voice seemed brittle by the end, the audible equivalent of an animal tensed to flee and hide. And near immediately, Tuor felt something opening, relaxing his defenses within himself.

"I don't think my mother's circumstances are very similar to yours, then," he murmured. From someone else, it might have been dismissive, mocking. To Tuor, it was simply fact, acknowledgement. Laying the pathwork of some mutual joining, not in direct touch, but something at Maeglin's side, to lay another piece against Tuor's if he wished.

"I suppose not." As quick as the hint of honesty had been bared, Maeglin hurried to wrap it up again in a sardonic tone, even something like a roll of his eyes. "And yet it's the closest you'll get here. Lest you think you could persuade our dear princess to put aside that armor of hers."

At his last statement, Tuor raised his eyebrows. The connection there suddenly fell into place, which he'd somehow to fit together before. King Turgon's wife; Princess Idril's mother. He glanced to the floor , pondering, but before he could put burgeoning thoughts to words, Maeglin interrupted again.

"It was not a statement of advice," he said acidly. "The Gondolindrim are as like to forsake their silences and falsehood rituals as they are the walls of this city itself."

"Well isn't that what you offered to help me do?"

Maeglin's eyes widened again; as if to compensate, his lips pressed tight against each other. Abruptly, taking his glass with him, he stood.

For a moment they were so close that Tuor felt almost as if he were breathing in some aspect of the elf's presence, along with the very air. A heady sensation, a strange thing almost like a pleasure he could not describe - but then Maeglin moved, stepping away and turning toward the door with a haughty tilt of his jaw - and it was gone.

The words that emerged then were barely a murmur. "I suppose it was, wasn't it."

He made a small, evaluative noise a moment later. "So is that something you think you could get then, Adan? Idril to open her heart to you, and reveal all her thoughts and memories unbefitting this city?"

A speck of irritation lodged itself in Tuor's chest at those words. He shook his head, mouth forming an involuntary frown. "I don't want to _reveal_ anything. I believe she sees me as a friend, and I wish that friendship to grow. It's a honest sharing of selves, not whatever… I don't even know. What are your motives? Political?"

The noise Maeglin made this time was more of a sniff, unbecoming of his grace but not entirely out of place even so. "Fine, as you say," he replied. "A small difference, close enough to be the same." Tuor could almost feel him pulling away again - the reason was somewhat beyond him, or too deeply stuck beneath other thoughts to unearth easily - but nonetheless he could tell that removal, that distance, was not an aim he wanted.

"Such a thing comes about by trust, you know," he offered. Or perhaps censured. Both, likely; that seemed closer to the nature of this interaction than either on its own.

Maeglin turned to half face him, still shrouded in his self-protective gestures. His arms close about his middle, his head angled so that the sleek drape of his hair fell right at the crease of his jacket above his chest. "And you wish to _trust_ me?" Light, mocking, a question that reminded Tuor rather of some of the men in Dor-lómin, save for the quality it felt of more like a sheet of ice than a hard block of it.

He put a hand to the sheet, and tapped it hard enough to crack.

"Perhaps. If you wish to trust me, then yes. It's better than the alternative." Tuor did not dissemble; his voice was flat, matter of fact. In such a thing, it was hard to say if he knew anything else. If there was knowledge, precisely, of what he did, it lay below the surface; if malice, deeper still. Maeglin drew him, yet was certainly not pleasant - but it was possible to trust even enemies, if enemies were what they had to be. He did not think they had to be such, in any case.

And - Tuor realised now - somewhere in this exchange, the unnatural stillness characterising what he'd seen of Maeglin before, had melted away, leaving a fluidness to Tuor's perceptions even when he wasn't directly in motion. Such as now, perhaps, because it struck him so dramatically, that he couldn't help but highlight the quality in those moments in the past, where he hadn't noticed it at the time.

Cracking the ice, to reveal the water flowing beneath.

Slender, almost sharp as he was, Maeglin still filled Tuor's vision when he stepped so close. And when he stepped closer, Tuor found it did not matter, because he shut his eyes with barely a thought with the press of lips against his own, mouths opening to one another, fingers and palm strong at the back of his neck and against his ribs like some attempt to possess.

"Have my _trust_ , then, if that is what you want." The armor was back on again, the ice reforming in the light reflecting from Maeglin's black eyes, narrowed and harsh. The words did not make sense. "I shall speak with the king; I shall expect your end of this bargain held." But Tuor's face felt warm, elsewhere too; there was a thrum of energy or some sort of vibration, a heartbeat where their bodies met. Nerves, sharpening the both of them, and he… wanted. Trust, yes, and this what Maeglin offered - _presented_ , wedged into place of what Tuor wished to have. Was it a sort of equivalence?

The skin beneath Maeglin's tunic felt to Tuor's hand both hot and cold, and when Tuor kissed him this time, his mouth was warm, and the yielding shift to fit better against Tuor's fingers, curling at the base of his skull, suggested enough.


End file.
